


Yours

by cardiganfucker



Series: Ours [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardiganfucker/pseuds/cardiganfucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours

John,

I’ve been reading a lot about Oscar Wilde lately. To put it in sickeningly simple words that dull and hardly even begin to describe him, he was a beautiful man. The words he wrote weren’t meant to be squeezed into 160 characters or less, or to know that every line had his name stamped to it. All his words were meant to use the facelessness of his absence and piece him together.  
And what not, John, is more beautiful then the written word? What is not more precious then the words of a lover clutched to ones chest, spilled ink secrets and pencil smeared confessions?

But I digress.

Wilde wrote letters to his beloved, never giving insight to his physical life but his emotional spirit and enquiring as to every moment and thought that passed through his lover’s mind.  
So John When I ask things as mundane as ‘Take out?’ or a simple statement such as, ‘bored’ I am truly saying ‘Please tell me all about you and how you are for I greatly care more about a minute of your day then a year of my life.'  
And then in an odd turn of events, I miss you. The real you. Not the work-worn, sleep deprived you, though I am thoroughly fond of that one more then I can describe. (Could fill London, could fill all of England with that love.) I miss the way the rooms, against all acts of logic, seem to physically brighten when you come in, or how the most beautiful days grow dim in the background as we go about from place to place. (No comparisons to nature competes with you, not even a cloudless day in Eden) So I count the moments till we are together again. Not in world weary bodies, but creatively clinging souls.

Please come home soon.

Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
